


don't get me wrong (i'd love to have my own theme song)

by theoddoodisnude



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoddoodisnude/pseuds/theoddoodisnude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is waiting, he knows what’s coming; they’ve been sitting in silence for maybe two minutes, when Derek says it; “Thank you.”</p>
<p>Stiles is smug, he’s brilliant and he knows it, he’s got Derek exactly where he wants him, so he says, “For what?”</p>
<p>Derek spares him a short glare, “You know what.”</p>
<p>“Do I?” Stiles asks and the grin is blinding, he can’t stop it, but then Derek actually takes his eyes off the road to give him a dark, heartfelt glare this time. “Okay, okay, I get it, I totally know what I did to warrant your rare but heart-warming gratitude, oh great alpha, you’re welcome.” </p>
<p>Derek’s eyes soften slightly and there is something that resembles a smile tugging at his lips again, “Good.”</p>
<p>Stiles snorts, “Good, he says, like what I did wasn’t a strike of sheer genius and nothing short of brilliant. <i>Good</i>...” but he’s smiling all the while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't get me wrong (i'd love to have my own theme song)

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a request, a prompt of sorts, by my friend Elin (skruudrivah @ tumblr). She asked me to write a Sterek fic inspired by “Superhero” by Luke Conard and Landon Austin. 
> 
> So, um. I don’t think this is what Elin had in mind, but then, it’s not really what I had in mind either. It sort of ran away from me. 
> 
> This is not beta read and was written mostly really late at night (or early in the morning, depending on who you ask). No spoilers, I think, and it takes place at some point after the second season finale. Also, I took some liberty with certain pack-related things.

“Just, what is it with the black leather? Is it a pack thing? You’re all wearing it. I’m pretty sure Isaac didn’t wear leather jackets before, and neither did Erica. Or Boyd. Even Scott wears one sometimes and that’s not even his kind of thing, you know? Jackson I get, because he’s an arrogant ass most of the time, it suits him -- and these days, I say that with all my heart, it comes from a place of caring, promise -- but, I mean, I don’t know, Scott might be into leashes, collars and stuff now, I don’t really want to know, but leather jackets? Didn’t use to be his thing,” Stiles says, not looking up from where he’s preparing sandwiches. He’s not the pack mum, he’s pretty sure he’s not even part of the “pack”, but somehow he always ends up making them food.  
  
“Oh my god! It’s like awkward family thing, isn’t it, everyone has to wear matching clothes,” Stiles grins and shakes his head. “I can just see your family photo, everyone posing awkwardly, wearing your black leather jackets. Everyone would have to wear sunglasses, too, so your eyes don’t do that -- shiny, reflective thing.”  
  
“Dude,” Scott says as he enters the kitchen. He’s blushing; it’s adorable. “I am not into leashes and stuff!”  
  
“See, that’s-- good, I guess, awesome, you can be into whatever you want, man, I don’t really care,” Stiles replies, easily, as he starts wrapping up the sandwiches. “But now I know that. Good on you, dude.”  
  
“Nothing wrong with leather jackets!” Erica calls from the living room, and Allison -- bless her poor hunter soul, Erica’s _corrupting her_ \-- lets out a whoop of agreement. Lydia says something about fashion, Allison says something about “ _those arms in leather_ ” and it makes Lydia change her mind.  
  
Stiles is pretty sure he doesn’t want to know what they’re talking about.  
  
“You know, Derek,” Stiles starts, thoughtfully. “I’m pretty sure it’s your fault. You started this whole leather jacket thing, and peer pressure -- or possibly puppy pressure, could be either, could be both -- is making a bunch of poor, confused teenagers wear leather jackets. It’s ridiculous.”  
  
“It’s not,” Scott says. “Allison likes--”  
  
“Yeah, sure, dude, The Allison likes it, but she’d also like you if you wore plaid or turtlenecks or just your birthday suit,” Stiles points out. “She’s biased. Don’t touch that! These are for later.”  
  
Scott seems like he’s torn between being happy that Allison likes him whatever he’s wearing -- or not wearing -- and being deeply unhappy that he can’t eat a sandwich now.  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with leather jackets,” Derek states, after a few moments of silence, like he feels obligated to defend the horrendous leather garments he insists on wearing all the time.  
  
Stiles spins around and gives him a pointed stare, “Sure, if one guy’s wearing it. The whole pack at the same time? I’m kind of embarrassed at being seen with you, to be perfectly honest.”  
  
“No, you’re not,” Boyd points out, unhelpfully. Everyone knows that Stiles lies about these kind of things, there’s no need to point it out, he feels like Boyd broke an unspoken rule and pouts.  
  
“This is why Isaac’s my favourite,” Stiles informs them all and Isaac actually bounds into the kitchen at that, wearing the most shit-eating, adorable grin in the History of Werewolf Grins. (Stiles would call it the most shit-eating, adorable grin in the History of Grins In General, but he can’t, Scott takes that prize). “He is adorable and he’s not mean to me. In fact, Isaac, I’m even going to let you ride shotgun today, how about that?”  
  
Isaac’s face is nothing short of ridiculous, the way it lights up, he looks so happy that he could burst and that, in turn, makes Stiles ridiculously happy. There is something deeply rewarding about making Isaac happy.  
  
“I thought I was riding shotgun,” Scott says, and now _he’s_ ridiculous, he’s pouting, what is this. And, oh god, no, he’s breaking out--  
  
“Not the puppy eyes!” Stiles cries, slapping a hand over his eyes. “Not fair, dude, those eyes should be bottled up and hidden somewhere far, far away. Or you should fight off big, mean villains with those things, jesus christ, it’s impossible to look at those eyes and not feel like I’ve just punched a baby seal.”  
  
“You can get shotgun on the way back,” Isaac suggests.  
  
Stiles doesn’t look, but he’s pretty sure that Scott and Isaac are doing their Love-Bros-Forever, Sugar-Spice-Everything-Nice googly eyes at each other.  
  
Stiles sighs, glances at Boyd and grins slightly as they roll their eyes simultaneously at the powerpuffwolves, and exchanges a Meaningful Look with Derek. Derek always looks an odd mix of fond and constipated whenever Stiles does something vaguely Pack Mum-y.  
  
“Whatever, dudes, I’m done here, I just need to load these things into the Jeep,” Stiles says loud enough for everyone to hear. “Then we can get going.”  
  
“Where are we even going?” Jackson asks, shortly, and grabs the basket Stiles put the sandwiches in -- he’s on orders from Lydia, which is why he’s helping out. He doesn’t look particularly happy about it.  
  
Stiles’ grin is wide and excited; “You’ll see.”  
  
\---  
  
“A picnic. _You_ \-- a picnic,” Jackson states, incredulously.  
  
“I’m not a werewolf, I’m not a super anything, I may not be able to fly,” Stiles says, spreading the big, checkered blanket over the grass. They’re in a glade a bit into the forest, the sun is shining through the clouds and the grass is richly green, the air fresh and clean. It’s lovely. “But I can still take you all on adventures! Have to keep you on your toes somehow.”  
  
Everyone except Scott and, surprisingly, Derek, are staring disbelievingly at Stiles.  
  
Stiles is feeling incredibly smug as he sits down and cradles the basket in his lap. Derek sits down next to him, close and warm, and Scott and Allison settle down on Stiles’ left side. One by one, they all sit down on the checkered blanket and the weird -- surrealness -- of the situation melts away.  
  
Stiles can’t stop grinning as he starts handing out sandwiches.  
  
\---  
  
The picnic, as expected, is a great big success.  
  
It helps with the pack bonding thing they’re working at, it’s fun, it’s relaxing and exactly what everyone needs.  
  
(That Derek sits beside Stiles the entire time is just an unplanned bonus. He’s warm and comforting and never moves too far; their hands brush a few times, their knees and shoulders knock together and it makes Stiles smile a little every time.)  
  
\---  
  
Everything has to go to shit eventually, though. It always does.  
  
They decide that the best way to end an awesome day with friends, is by keep hanging out with those friends and having a movie night. Stiles nominates himself to rent a film -- The Renter is the one that gets to choose which film they’re going to watch, there is no way he’s letting anyone else do that -- and Derek goes with him, because they need snacks and Derek has the money for that.  
  
Stiles and Derek are taking the Camaro and Stiles reluctantly gives his keys to Scott, who is the designated driver because he’s driven the Jeep before and hence the only one Stiles trusts with his car. It’s quite hilarious to see seven people squeeze into the Jeep, though, because the Jeep is not small, but Isaac is tall, Boyd is huge, all of the guys have rather wide shoulders and Lydia refuses to sit in anyone’s lap.  
  
Stiles snickers, “You’re too cute. Good luck, guys,” and bounces into the Camaro.  
  
Derek’s mouth is almost twitching upwards in a tiny, tiny wolf grin, as he throws a last look at his pack and tears away.  
  
Stiles is waiting, he knows what’s coming; they’ve been sitting in silence for maybe two minutes, when Derek says it; “Thank you.”  
  
Stiles is smug, he’s brilliant and he knows it, he’s got Derek exactly where he wants him, so he says, “For what?”  
  
Derek spares him a short glare, “You know what.”  
  
“Do I?” Stiles asks and the grin is blinding, he can’t stop it, but then Derek actually takes his eyes off the road to give him a dark, heartfelt glare this time. “Okay, okay, I get it, I totally know what I did to warrant your rare but heart-warming gratitude, oh great alpha, you’re welcome.”  
  
Derek’s eyes soften slightly and there is something that resembles a smile tugging at his lips again, “Good.”  
  
Stiles snorts, “Good, he says, like what I did wasn’t a strike of sheer genius and nothing short of brilliant. _Good_...” but he’s smiling all the while.  
  
They’ve been riding for ten minutes, maybe, when they hear it. Howls.  
  
Derek stops the car very abruptly and Stiles starts complaining about whiplash, but is immediately hushed.  
  
“What--?”  
  
“Werewolves.”  
  
“Yeah, I got that. But wh--”  
  
“They’re not from around here,” Derek murmurs. He opens his door and gives Stiles a Meaningful Look, says, “Stay here.”  
  
Then he leaves.  
  
Stiles blinks a couple of times; he considers just immediately running after Derek -- because it’s inevitable, he’s going to, Derek must know that too -- but decides to trust Derek for a couple of minutes, before rushing out after him.  
  
Something runs past the car. It’s a some _one_ , Stiles realises, after two more run past the car. He slides down in his seat and silently prays that they haven’t seen or smelled him yet; he takes out his phone and texts Scott.  
  
 **to: Scotty-doo**  
once you’re at my place, don’t go out till i say it’s okay  
  
He gets a reply within seconds.  
  
 **from: Scotty-doo**  
somethin up?  
  
Stiles rubs a hand over his eyes and types back.  
  
 **to: Scotty-doo**  
maybe. but till i know, stay inside!!!  
  
The exclamation marks are not an exaggeration at all, actually, because Scott needs the extra exclamation marks to understand the weight of a situation sometimes.  
  
A last person-type creature runs past the car and Stiles is trying very hard to practice his self-preservation skills, but--  
  
He hears another howl and recognises it as Derek’s.  
  
Stiles is slamming the door shut and running without thinking twice about it; he picks up a long stick and fills his pockets with small stones and pebbles -- if he can’t hurt the wolves, he can at least piss them off.  
  
There’s growling, Stiles hears it as he gets closer, and Derek is not only super angry, but he also sounds _hurt_.  
  
Stiles is not fast -- he’s not slow, either, but he’s not fast, fast enough, he needs to be at the speed of light, but he’s not, he can’t, he’s human -- but he can still be by Derek’s side, so he keeps running. He can do something, _anything_ , he has to.  
  
Derek is standing in front of a tree, as backed into a corner as it gets while in a forest, surrounded by five people who are clearly werewolves: Stiles can tell from the way they’re all totally wolfed out. Everything about them screams _pack_ \-- it’s in the way they’re standing in relation to one another, how they make short sounds and tiny movements and doubtlessly understand each other -- but there is _something_ about them...  
  
Stiles freezes behind a tree and takes a moment to observe the unknown wolves. They’re all very familiar with each other, they seem like a tight knit group, but there’s something-- they keep glancing at each other, checking with each other; they obviously have a set plan, but they still feel a constant need to ascertain it.  
  
It hits Stiles like a slap in the face: they don’t have an Alpha. An alphaless pack. Is that even a thing? Can they be considered a real pack?  
  
Stiles shakes his head, tries to clear it of the questions that keep popping up, and tries to decide on a plan of attack instead. He needs to distract the alphaless pack long enough to give Derek an opening, a way out of his locked-in position.  
  
The alphaless pack’s strength is definitely their strategic attacks and excellent team work, but a twig breaks somewhere far away, and at least two heads turn at the sound; so, Stiles thinks, it’s safe to assume that they’re easily distracted.  
  
So he creates a plan and doesn’t give himself the chance to second-guess it; he launches right into it, running between trees, trying his hardest to be at least a little stealthy. He stops a bit away from the alphaless wolves, grabs a small stone from his jeans pocket, aims, and throws it at one of the wolves. He throws another one, and is triumphant for the entirety of two seconds when they all turn toward him, before he realises that they’ll be after him now.  
  
He turns and runs, fully aware of the fact that they’re very capable of catching up to him within seconds. But Stiles is sort of counting on Derek to catch up, too, it’s a vital part of his plan.  
  
The first wolf reaches Stiles, and Stiles stops abruptly and whacks the guy on the head with the stick he picked up earlier. The expression on the guy’s face is priceless -- shocked and indignant doesn’t begin to cover it, Stiles wishes he could’ve taken a photo of it, he’d have it framed and everything -- but Stiles doesn’t have time to admire it: he starts running again, jumps over a stone, swings himself around a tree, kicks up moss and leaves and hopes to, at least, be able to confuse the alphaless pack for a while.  
  
It’s inevitable, of course, that they all catch up to him. Fortunately, that also includes Derek, who is quick to shove Stiles back and crouch defensively in front of him; Stiles would be considerably more flattered, and possibly embarrassed, if he wasn’t so used to being the damsel in distress. As it is, what he can do now is stand back and keep throwing small stones at anyone who comes too close. He’s aiming for the eyes.  
  
Derek growls, loudly, dangerously, obviously pulling out the Mighty Alpha Powers card. The alphaless pack stops moving, not giving any ground, but not coming any closer, either.  
  
Derek spits, “What do you want?”  
  
A stunning, curvy brunette with bushy hair steps forward. Her eyes are sharp, green, determined. She answers: “An alpha.”  
  
“What makes you think that you’re going to find one here?” Derek asks.  
  
“You,” she says. “You’re an alpha, aren’t you? We found you. When we kill you, we will gain ourselves an alpha.”  
  
“No!” Stiles exclaims and only half-regrets it when all eyes land on him. He shakes his head, bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to picture what his group of friends would be like, look like, without Derek there. (He’s pretty sure they’d fall apart. So would Stiles). He resists the urge to clear his throat and continues, “That’s not how it works, you can’t just come here wanting an alpha and expect to get one. That has to break, like, _all_ the secret werewolf rules,” he frowns at the girl. “What-- how can you be so desperate for an alpha, that you’re willing to come all the way here to kill someone else’s?”  
  
“We just want to be together,” the girl says, looking Stiles right in the eye, like she knows that he’ll understand what she means -- because he sort of does, when she puts it like that; the alpha is the glue that keeps the pack together, an essential part. Derek is actually getting better at it. “And for that, we need to be a pack. It’s the only thing that can hold us together, keep us from just being a group of alphaless _omegas_.”  
  
“‘Cause we’re not omegas,” one of the guy’s adds. “We’re not alone. We’re just not a pack.”  
  
“You can’t just-- ruin another pack entirely, because you think you can’t be the werewolf equivalent of BFFs unless you have an alpha,” Stiles says, and he’s running out of pebbles to throw at them. He doesn’t exactly have time to grab another handful of stones. “What you want to do, is basically steal an alpha. That’s not how it works, dudes.”  
  
“We have no interest in _your_ alpha,” the girl snarls through gritted teeth. “We just want--”  
  
“To steal his epic alpha powers, yeah, I got it,” Stiles interrupts, lifting his head and looking her in the eye. “But it’s basically the same thing.”  
  
It’s quiet, tension thick in the air, every member of the alphaless pack glaring at Stiles.  
  
Stiles still has some serious work to do on his self-preservation skills, because he takes a step forward, positions himself in front of Derek and says, “You’re going to have to get an alpha some other way, because this one right here, he has a pack that needs him. He’s spoken for.”  
  
The girl that talked earlier stares long and hard at Stiles. In the end, she shakes her head and frowns, “I see. But we’re not giving up.”  
  
 _I don’t expect you to_ , Stiles means to say, but all he does is yelp pathetically and duck behind Derek when the alphaless wolves come at them again. They take turns, jumping forth, slashing, biting, ducking and weaving, switching places and growling, howling.  
  
They seem to be everywhere, constantly, and Stiles can hardly keep up -- he’s run out of pebbles, so ends up mostly waving the stick around and getting in lucky hits every now and then. Derek, of course, is considerably better at retaliating and fighting back: he’s ducking and weaving, too, but he can’t move as freely -- he refuses to leave Stiles open for an attack -- which means that he takes more hits than he usually would.  
  
The alphaless pack are not letting up, they keep attacking, seemingly tireless; Stiles manages to lure them into another merry chase, but it only takes minutes for them to end up exactly where they were before. Derek would never admit it, but he’s getting tired, Stiles can tell -- the alphaless pack is good, they’re fast and Derek can’t keep track of all of them at the same time, doesn’t have time to heal between unrepentant, sharp slashes.  
  
Stiles has a sinking feel in the pit of his stomach, he feels like a stone, like a liability. He swallows hard and shakes his head. They can do this.  
  
“We can do this,” Stiles whispers, confidently, his fingers brushing against the back of Derek’s hand when they’re both in the middle of a movement. “We’ve come this far, Derek, we’re not dying now.”  
  
Derek throws a split second glance at Stiles and nods; he growls at the other wolves again, using all his Mighty Alpha Powers, and this time they actually cower, instinctively take half a step back.  
  
But then one of them leaps forth too unexpectedly, manages to get his claws all over Derek’s chest, officially rendering Derek’s t-shirt but tattles and leaving new, deep scratches in Derek’s skin.  
  
Stiles doesn’t think, he just knows that when the wolves are this close, he can reach them too -- so he grits his teeth and puts everything he has into a punch.  
  
It hits home and the wolf actually sinks down on the ground, more shocked than anything else.  
  
Stiles is pretty sure he actually just broke his hand, ouch fucking _fuck_ , but he can’t care about that now; he looks at the guy on the ground, evenly, and says, “Give up. You’re not winning this one. Leave now.”  
  
Derek, injured and bloodied, howls his agreement, and the alphaless pack cowers again.  
  
The bushy-haired brunette looks between Derek and Stiles, glances at her not-quite-packmates -- takes in the way they’re injured and tired, how their wounds aren’t healing as fast usual, because these come from an alpha -- and finally nods reluctantly.  
  
They leave in pairs, until only she is left -- she growls loudly, menacingly, before she turns around and sprints after her friends.  
  
Stiles staggers, leans back against a tree and tries to catch the breath that just left him.  
  
The silence is deafening and he can’t believe they _won_.  
  
\---  
  
So. The enemies have retreated, the battle is won, and Stiles feels a little bit like he’s going to throw up. His hands are shaking, but he’s alive and, on the whole, miraculously uninjured -- which is not something that can be said for Derek.  
  
Derek topples forward and Stiles just has time to catch him before he hits the ground; but Derek is heavier than expected and Stiles ends up falling down, Derek falling too, ending up on top of Stiles.  
  
Stiles groans and sits up a little, his legs covered by Derek’s, Derek’s face against his chest.  
  
“You okay there, big guy?” he asks, deliberating for a moment or two whether or not he should be cautious, but -- as usual -- ends up throwing caution to the wind.  
  
Derek grinds his teeth together and growls, but the anger is not directed at Stiles, he can tell.  
  
“Got some healing to do, I got it,” Stiled nods. “I’ll just sit here, that’s cool.”  
  
\---  
  
Some time passes and Derek hasn’t calmed down entirely yet; he’s breathing heavier than usual, his hands are curled and hidden away from sight, but Stiles is pretty sure that Derek’s claws are out and on top of that, his sharp, sharp teeth flash in the moonlight. Derek is distinctly aware of how closely Stiles is watching him and it makes his shoulders tense and his eyes go hard. He shifts like he wants to move away, roll off of Stiles somehow and Stiles rolls his eyes at him.  
  
Stiles murmurs, “I’m not scared of you,” and he says is calmly, matter-of-factly, because he must have said it a hundred times by now. It still makes some tension go out of Derek, a tiny reaction that is obvious to Stiles, because Derek is lying on top of him. He felt that tiny, minute movement because Derek is lying on top of him.  
  
And, _wow_ , Stiles is suddenly feeling so awkward right now, oh my god, _Derek Hale is lying on top of him_ , this is not romantic, it totally shouldn’t be, but it is, in this super weird, intangible way. It’s also really nice, Derek smells nice and he’s warm and he can probably smell how much Stiles is enjoying this -- in a totally non-boner way, for once -- and the adrenaline is slipping away, Stiles’ hand is hurting like a bitch, he’s coming back to his super duper hyper self and this all just so--  
  
“Nonsense,” Stiles whispers and promptly wants to hurl himself off a cliff.  
  
“What?” Derek asks, looking up at Stiles like there is something seriously wrong with Stiles’ head. There probably is. Derek’s eyes shine prettily in the moonlight and Stiles is such a sap. He clears his throat.  
  
“Nonsense,” Stiles repeats, still in a whisper, and he keeps talking, when all he really wants to do is shoot himself dead in a very dead dead dead way. “It’s. You know. In romance novels or just books, in general, there’s always this moment when the hero is holding the girl after something traumatic has happened, and they always say, like, _he whispered nonsense in her ear until she calmed down_ , and I’ve always thought that’s super strange. Like, he whispers nonsense, but what exactly does _nonsense_ entail? And in the end I usually just picture him whispering “nonsense” over and over until she calms down.”  
  
Stiles has clamped a hand over his mouth by now -- the hand that is hurting, by the way, he’s pretty sure that it’s starting to turn blue, god, it’s probably broken -- because he should _really_ stop talking. He clears his throat and lowers his hand long enough to say, “Sorry. You know how I get. Adrenaline. It. Adrenaline and hyper just don’t work very well,” he keeps lowering his hand until he forgets he was supposed to stop talking. “And you know me. I talk a lot, it’s hard not to notice, isn’t it, and I just want to take this moment to point out that a lot of fiction is surprisingly sexist, you know? The guy has to calm the girl down, very gender stereotypic, very unfair. And, you know, Derek, I’m not that kind of guy, I don’t support sexism--”  
  
“Stiles.”  
  
“Thank you,” Stiles sighs, relieved.  
  
His arms are getting tired; Derek’s head is on his chest, their legs entangled, and Stiles is basically holding the both of them up -- sort of like that one time in the pool, but Stiles is not thinking about that, purposely revisiting two hours of wet trauma is not a good idea, nope, he’s not doing that -- but his arms are starting to feel like jelly, so he lowers himself and Derek to the ground. “You’re heavy,” he mutters, shifts around until Derek lies more comfortably on him. “How’s the healing thing coming along?”  
  
“Okay,” Derek answers, carefully.  
  
Not so well, then, Stiles assumes. Or it’s just going slowly.  
  
“I didn’t mean to imply that you’re a girl, by the way,” Stiles murmurs. “Which you know, obviously, you know me. I mean, seriously, I’ve never even come close to mistaking you for a girl. And also I’m quite obviously the Robin in this situation, as usual, so that -- just, please forget I said anything.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” Derek says, his actual-sarcastic-personality coming out, so maybe the healing is going better than Stiles thought. “I think you were quite the Batman out there. Looked that mean werewolf right in the eye and told her that this alpha is spoken for and everything.”  
  
“Oh, that?” Stiles grins, boisterous and proud. “That was nothing! I’ve faced much worse; I’ve played Tekken against Scott when he’s high on energy drinks. I’ve seen Erica when someone’s laid siege on the bathroom in the morning -- I’ve even seen The Allison when she’s mad at her dad. That, oh great alpha, is truly frightening.”  
  
Derek snorts and Stiles can feel him smile against his shoulder. It makes him almost giddy.  
  
“Don’t get me wrong, though,” Stiles continues. “Because back there? That was totally awesome. I could totally rock this whole -- nighttime vigilante thing. I’d have an alias -- and I’d have to kill you if you told anyone my real name, by the way, just so you know -- and also, I’d have my own theme song. It would be awesome.”  
  
Derek is actually shaking now, huffing out choked-down laughter that must be painful, considering he’s still healing. Stiles pats him on the back sympathetically.  
  
“I mean it, Stiles,” Derek murmurs when the laughter’s died down. He’s talking into Stiles’ neck now, it’s distracting and comforting. “What you did there... you came back for me. You should’ve-- you could’ve just stayed in the car, but you came back for me. You helped.”  
  
 _Thank you_ , is hanging in the air between them.  
  
“I did what anyone would do,” Stiles replies, quietly. “The way you’re saying it, really just sounds like you’re making me out to be some kind of hero,” he points out, aiming for snarky but landing somewhere around uncomfortable. “Which is one thing I am really not. I’m like the non-evil opposite of a hero, really. Wow, I just said _really_ , like, three times in one sentence, that _really_ makes it sound like I have a _really_ limited vocabulary.”  
  
“Stiles,” Derek says and Stiles is equal parts relieved and annoyed that Derek has worked out the exact tone of voice required to instantly to override Stiles’ ramblings. “You’re not a hero,” Derek agrees, quietly, dismissing most of Stiles’ rant, except the important part. “But you’re a good person to need.”  
  
Stiles swallows, strangely touched, unfamiliar with the feeling of being _needed_ by someone other than his dad and Scott.  
  
“You didn’t break your hand,” Derek states, out of nowhere, deigns to tell Stiles this _now_ , like an unimportant by-the-way.  
  
“Really? How can you tell? Wait, don’t answer, you can probably _smell_ that it’s not broken, or something,” Stiles mutters. “It totally feels broken, though. Have you seen my hand? That shade of blue is not natural. It doesn’t match my skintone.”  
  
Derek ignores him entirely, changes the topic and says, “I’ve healed enough now. We should go back to the car.”  
  
Stiles sighs and nods. He rolls Derek off of him, stands up and helps Derek get up on his feet; in whatever language Derek’s speaking, “healed enough” obviously means “not bleeding profusely from a number of places”, so as long as there are no open wounds, Derek considers himself to be fine. Apparently.  
  
Stiles does not agree, which is why he takes it upon himself to make sure that Derek doesn’t fall over and die on the way to the car.  
  
(Again, being pressed up against warm, comfortable, muscled Derek is just an unplanned bonus.)  
  
They get to manage to get to the car without incident. Stiles’ phone has been vibrating incessantly for the last twenty minutes, so he leans Derek against the car and fishes up his phone from his pocket and reads through the twenty-odd texts he’s received.  
  
“Dude,” he murmurs, glancing up at Derek. “We’re going to have to buy so much chocolate to make up for this.”  
  
“It wasn’t our fault,” Derek points out, swaying closer to Stiles again.  
  
“Yeah, well, we know that, but that doesn’t mean that the others will see it our way. Erica is pissed, apparently, and The Allison actually did put Scott on a leash,” Stiles tries very hard not to grin as he goes through the texts. “Lydia took Jackson’s car keys... Boyd had to sit on Isaac’s legs to keep him from coming after us... but hey! At least they did as I told them. I texted Scott to keep them at home,” he clarifies. “Nice to know that they trust my judgement sometimes, at least.”  
  
Derek hugs Stiles.  
  
Stiles brain melts out of his ear, he’s pretty sure. He and Derek are close and all, but this very rarely happens, especially when they’re both entirely sober and clear-headed.  
  
“They trust you,” he says, mouth against Stiles’ hairline, which is just cosy and weirdly intimate. “And I trust you. You haven’t lead us completely astray yet.”  
  
“Yet,” Stiles echoes, faintly, and turns his face into Derek’s neck. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”  
  
Derek puts his lips against Stiles’ temple in what is not exactly a kiss, but almost.  
  
When they get to Stiles’ house, the others will be upset and worried and loud and touchy-feely. They’ll ask questions and Stiles will probably do a dramatic reenactment of what happened, and Derek will be a deadly serious buzzkill who insists on retelling the story as it actually played out. They’ll watch whatever movie Stiles rents and form a puppy pile on and around the couch; there will be popcorn in the couch for weeks.  
  
But that is later. Right now, they’re both alive, it’s quiet and Derek is close and warm, his hands low on Stiles’ back and his lips wandering around, visiting every birthmark on Stiles’ face. They let themselves have this, now; Stiles leans as close as he can and doesn’t speak, for once. Derek smiles.  
  
\---  
  
It’s three in the morning and everyone went home about an hour ago; that, however, does not mean that all communication has ceased.  
  
 **from: Derek**  
Isaac won’t shut up about how you saved the day.  
  
 **from: Erica**  
Make Isaac shut up!!  
  
 **from: Scotty-doo**  
dude u can ttly be batman nxt halloween i’ll be your robin this time  
  
Stiles is covered from top to toe in blankets and covers, hidden away in a secret blanket castle. His phone is his only source of light.  
  
 **to: Scotty-doo**  
you’re saying that now, but when halloween comes around, you and allison will probably be batman and catwoman. or superman and wonder woman. or hawkeye and black widow, except allison is hawkeye in that scenario.  
  
Stiles dismisses Erica’s text as uninteresting and spends some time staring at the text from Derek. In the end, he types back:  
  
 **to: Derek**  
you know me, your regular nighttime vigilante. no wonder the pup looks up to me! i’ve even made a theme song now  
  
 **from: Derek**  
Of course you have.  
  
 **to: Derek**  
of course i have. it even features you as the sidekick!  
  
 **from: Derek**  
I am no one’s sidekick.  
  
Stiles snorts quietly and rubs his eyes before typing back.  
  
 **to: Derek**  
well, obviously you are mine  
  
It takes a couple of minutes for Derek to reply.  
  
 **from: Derek**  
Yeah. I am.  
  
Stiles stares at the text and only just manages to restrain himself from gaping. He cradles the phone to his chest and giggles a little hysterically, it feels like his face is going to break from how widely, goofily, incredulously he’s grinning.  
  
 **from: Derek**  
Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, nonsense.  
  
Stiles actually chokes on a laugh and ends up coughing quite violently.  
  
 **from: Derek**  
In case you’re freaking out.  
  
 **to: Derek**  
i am totally not freaking out! and also, that you were the one whispering nonsense this time, doesn’t make me your girl  
  
It takes a couple of minutes for Derek to answer again and Stiles yawns. His face is aching from how much he’s smiling.  
  
 **from: Derek**  
No, but it does make you mine.  
  
Stiles only hesitates for a second or two, before replying.  
  
 **to: Derek**  
yeah, it does.  
  
And because he’s a shameless teenager, he adds:  
  
 **to: Derek**  
and also my window is not locked. night!  
  
Stiles doesn’t wait to see if Derek replies again; he slaps his phone onto his bedside table and crawls back underneath the covers.  
  
He’s still smiling as he falls asleep.  
  
(And maybe Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of his window being opened and a familiar, warm weight lying down beside him on the bed. Maybe.)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr!


End file.
